


Markers

by Outofangband



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angband, Delusional Thinking, Hallucinations, Implied Torture, Implied abuse, Mental Illness, PTSD, badthingshappenbingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 20:15:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17453564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Outofangband/pseuds/Outofangband
Summary: (Summery: Few could know the profound horror that torture at the hands of the Dark Enemy leaves. Written for a prompt from Badthingshappenbingo on Tumblr and because I think that Maedhros has a more complicated relationship with Morgoth than his generally talked about. Also posted to @outofangband on Tumblr. Please feel free to chat if you would like!)





	Markers

**Author's Note:**

> (Warning/Note: This story deals with post traumatic stress disorder though if we want to get really technical, at this point it would likely be known as acute stress disorder, and severe flashbacks and dissociation. I wanted to clarify that while episodes of disassociation and trauma related hallucinations are different for everyone who experiences them, this is something that I have experience with)

(might write a second part if there is interest)

 

    Maedhros is unsure of the nature of the shadows he sees as he looks up from his bed to the ceiling. The curtains were drawn slightly and light entered the small room. When the moon and sun had risen in the sky, Maedhros had still been in the darkness. Thus, for him, lights moving across the walls meant little more than the risings of panic he had felt when splotches of dim torchlight illuminated his pale face as doors creaked open and beings approached him, always with ill intent. By day, the sunlight hurt his eyes and made it hard to think. By night, he was frightened by the seemingly living shadows that moved across the walls and ceiling, even when there was no wind. For the first time since he was a child, he slept with the covers pulled over his head.   
    He was only now starting to get used to this room, small yet warm and comfortable, and the strange light from outside the window when he was awoken hours past moonrise by a feeling of cold panic. He did not recall having had a nightmare and so for a moment, Maedhros merely sat up in bed, looking around, trying to re-orient himself with his surroundings. The feeling of fear did not lessen. A few attempts to assure himself that there was nothing to be afraid of slipped through his mind like smoke. Warm frustration mixed with the chill of panic and he leaned back against the headboard of his bed, tense and curling his fingers and toes.   
    It was then that he saw it, as he lay his right arm down in front of him. Just above his wrist, on his still pale skin was the clear imprint of a dark hand. Maedhros blinks, lucid enough to register that what he was seeing should not be there, had not been there moments ago. But it did not disappear. He saw it still, as though it had been burned there. His entire body trembling now, Maedhros reaches out to touch it. Despair adds to the already suffocating emotions now as he notes that his finger now seems darkened, as though having touched ink. Yet the original mark has not been disturbed.   
    He  _knows_  what this means, what it can only mean. Ever since he was of clear enough thought he had considered this awful possibility. The Dark Lord corrupted all that he touched. And he  _had_  touched him, enough to leave physical marks. And now this. Tears burn in his eyes as he knows what he has to do. Without considering his still weakened physical state, Maedhros pushes aside his blanket, ignoring the cold that soaks through him, and half stumbles out of bed. He cannot be here, not if he has been corrupted, or is at risk of becoming so. What a horrible irony that would be, if he were to repay his uncle’s hospitality and forgiveness by, however unwittingly, bringing such evil, vile forces to his stronghold. Not bothering to put on a cloak or even socks, Maedhros steps into the dimly lit hall and walks towards the stairs. His legs shake. He has not been strong enough to leave his bed for days, maybe weeks. But he has no choice now.   
Maedhros is halfway down the stairs when two elves approach him. He has seen them before though he does not remember their names or duties. They look worried now.  
“My Lord…” the younger of the two starts and Maedhros’s brow furrows in confusion, “Should you not be resting?” Maedhros does not like the way they are looking at him, curious, and pitying, and deeply bewildered.   
“I have to go,” he says softly and takes another step forward.  
“My Lord, you are not well,” the elf tries again, “You need to rest. Should I…” they look unsure, worried, “Should I call for your uncle?” Maedhros blinks. He does not know why they need to bother with this. Lord Nolofinwë is smart enough to know what must be done, even if he will not like it. Maedhros does not have time to discuss the matter with him. Not with so much at risk. The two elves however, do not seem to understand this. The older one looks nervously at Maedhros before hurrying off, assuring him that they will return with Nolofinwë as if that is something that will comfort him.   
“I am sorry, My Lord,” the younger elf tells Maedhros, crossing their arms, “I do not think it is wise for you to leave. Not now. Not when you are still so unwell.”   
Maedhros wishes they would stop with the formal titles. They sound far more like mockeries to him. But that hardly matters now. What matters is how he is going to explain to his uncle how important it is that he leaves before the Enemy has the chance to claim any more of his mind. He wonders why the other elf is not so concerned with the horrible mark on his arm. Its meaning could not have been clearer. Perhaps, a terrifying thought occurs, Perhaps they were all warned this could happen, and were expecting it. He stares bleakly at them for several minutes until footsteps behind him make him whirl around in panic.   
Fingolfin has arrived with the older elf who looks concerned. Maedhros opens his mouth to begin to explain the situation but falls silent at the look on his uncle’s face.   
“Nelya…” he starts, reaching out to his nephew. Maedhros stares at his hand, not really knowing what he wanted, “Nelya, come back to bed. You are not yet strong enough to be outside and certainly not at this time of night. It is colder than it has been in weeks. Come…” He puts his hand on Maedhros’s shoulder and starts to guide him back up the stairs.   
     “Uncle…” Maedhros says quietly, knowing he will not have much time to speak before he is left alone in that room again, “It…it is not safe for me to stay here.” Shame floods his already frazzled senses as he works up the courage to show Fingolfin his arm, bearing so clearly the mark of the one who had started all this grief and misery. He half expected to be struck in response.   
    Instead, Fingolfin’s brow furrows in some confusion as he takes Maedhros’s arm, looking back to his face.  
    “Nelya…I do not understand,” he says finally. Maedhros blinks again.   
   “But..the mark…” he says, not daring to look down again, partly because another possibility has occurred to him and it feels almost as painful at the moment.   
“Come back to bed,” Fingolfin suggests gently, letting go of his nephew’s arm, “We can look at this more closely in the morning. I give you my word, Nelya, there is no danger tonight. Nothing that cannot wait until you have rested some.”  
Guilt settles in the pit of Maedhros’s stomach. He does not have to ask for more clarification. He knows that Fingolfin, at least, does not see what he does. Having imagined or brought up such an image or idea into his thoughts feels almost as bad as yet another physical marker for it does mean that there is something that has taken root in his mind, something evil. He can hardly blame those whom he knows speak doubtfully of his sanity. Though really, Maedhros admits to himself as Fingolfin adjusts his blankets, it is quite a reasonable thing to fear. 


End file.
